Geoffrey made large eyes at her as he held up his glass.
“I know you’ll come out all right in love, I know,” he said heavily.
“And you, Ciccio? Aren’t you drinking?” said Mr. May.
Ciccio held up his glass, looked at Alvina, made a little mouth at her, comical, and drank his beer.
“Well,” said Mr. May, “beer must confirm it, since words won’t.”
“What time is it?” said Alvina. “We must have supper.”
It was past nine o’clock. Alvina rose and went to the kitchen, the men trailing after her. Miss Pinnegar was not there. She was not anywhere.
“Has she gone to bed?” said Mr. May. And he crept stealthily upstairs on tiptoe, a comical, flush-faced, tubby little man. He was familiar with the house. He returned prancing.
“I heard her cough,” he said. “There’s a light under her door. She’s gone to bed. Now haven’t I always said she was a good soul? I shall drink her health. Miss Pinnegar—” and he bowed stiffly in the direction of the stairs—“your health, and a good night’s rest.”
After which, giggling gaily, he seated himself at the head of the table and began to carve the cold mutton.
“And where are the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras this week?” he asked. They told him.
“Oh? And you two are cycling back to the camp of Kishwégin tonight? We mustn’t prolong our cheerfulness too far.”
“Ciccio is staying to help me with my bag tomorrow,” said Alvina. “You know I’ve joined the Tawaras permanently—as pianist.”
“No, I didn’t know that! Oh really! Really! Oh! Well! I see! Permanently! Yes, I am surprised! Yes! As pianist? And if I might ask, what is your share of the tribal income?”
“That isn’t settled yet,” said Alvina.
“No! Exactly! Exactly! It wouldn’t be settled yet. And you say it is a permanent engagement? Of cauce, at such a figure.”
“Yes, it is a permanent engagement,” said Alvina.
“Really! What a blow you give me! You won’t come back to the Endeavour? What? Not at all?”
“No,” said Alvina. “I shall sell out of the Endeavour.”
“Really! You’ve decided, have you? Oh! This is news to me. And is this quite final, too?”
“Quite,” said Alvina.
“I see! Putting two and two together, if I may say so—” and he glanced from her to the young men—“I see. Most decidedly, most one-sidedly, if I may use the vulgarism, I see—e—e! Oh! but what a blow you give me! What a blow you give me!”
“Why?” said Alvina.
“What’s to become of the Endeavour? and consequently, of poor me?”
“Can’t you keep it going?—form a company?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve done my best. But I’m afraid, you know, you’ve landed me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Alvina. “I hope not.”
“Thank you for the hope,” said Mr. May sarcastically. “They say hope is sweet. I begin to find it a little bitter!”
Poor man, he had already gone quite yellow in the face. Ciccio and Geoffrey watched him with dark-seeing eyes.
“And when are you going to let this fatal decision take effect?” asked Mr. May.
“I’m going to see the lawyer tomorrow, and I’m going to tell him to sell everything and clear up as soon as possible,” said Alvina.
“Sell everything! This house, and all it contains?”
“Yes,” said Alvina. “Everything.”
“Really!” Mr. May seemed smitten quite dumb. “I feel as if the world had suddenly come to an end,” he said.
“But hasn’t your world often come to an end before?” said Alvina.
“Well—I suppose, once or twice. But never quite on top of me, you see, before—”
There was a silence.
“And have you told Miss Pinnegar?” said Mr. May.
“Not finally. But she has decided to open a little business in Tamworth, where she has relations.”
“Has she! And are you really going to tour with these young people—?” he indicated Ciccio and Gigi. “And at no salary!” His voice rose. “Why! It’s almost White Slave Traffic, on Madame’s part. Upon my word!”
“I don’t think so,” said Alvina. “Don’t you see that’s insulting.”
“Insulting! Well, I don’t know. I think it’s the truth—”
“Not to be said to me, for all that,” said Alvina, quivering with anger.
“Oh!” perked Mr. May, yellow with strange rage. “Oh! I mustn’t say what I think! Oh!”
“Not if you think those things—” said Alvina.
“Oh really! The difficulty is, you see, I’m afraid I do think them—” Alvina watched him with big, heavy eyes.
“Go away,” she said. “Go away! I won’t be insulted by you.”
“No indeed!” cried Mr. May, starting to his feet, his eyes almost bolting from his head. “No indeed! I wouldn’t think of insulting you in the presence of these two young gentlemen.”
Ciccio rose slowly, and with a slow, repeated motion of the head, indicated the door.
“Allez!” he said.
“Certainement!” cried Mr. May, flying at Ciccio, verbally, like an enraged hen yellow at the gills. “Certainement! Je m’en vais. Cette compagnie n’est pas de ma choix.”
“Allez!” said Ciccio, more loudly.
And Mr. May strutted out of the room like a bird bursting with its own rage. Ciccio stood with his hands on the table, listening. They heard Mr. May slam the front door.
“Gone!” said Geoffrey.
Ciccio smiled sneeringly.
“Voyez, un cochon de lait,” said Gigi amply and calmly.
Ciccio sat down in his chair. Geoffrey poured out some beer for him, saying:
“Drink, my Cic’, the bubble has burst, prfff!” And Gigi knocked in his own puffed cheek with his fist. “Allaye, my dear, your health! We are the Tawaras. We are Allaye! We are Pacohuila! We are Walgatchka! Allons! The milk-pig is stewed and eaten. Voilà!” He drank, smiling broadly.
“One by one,” said Geoffrey, who was a little drunk: “One by one we put them out of the field, they are hors de combat. Who remains? Pacohuila, Walgatchka, Allaye—”
He smiled
